Folk Around and Find Out (Good Folk: Modern Folktales #2)(63)

Charlotte overwhelmed me, dragged me under the tide of a fantasy becoming reality. I wanted my hands to always be full of her, her mouth always on mine, and her response to my touch always this restless and anxious. Certainty that kissing her had been the right choice—the only choice—swept through me, a satisfaction close to painful swelling in my chest, leaving my brain buzzing while an urgent thought surfaced.

She’s mine. Mine. MINE.

Yes.

Parting my lips to breathe, I licked at the seam of hers, my body rocking rhythmically, instinctively, searching, my hands sliding up her back, wrapping her in a tighter hold. Her lips parted and our tongues met, stroked, mated, electric shocks and expanding rightness arresting my lungs. She moaned, pressing closer. The sound reverberated to the base of my spine, and my hips snapped forward on instinct.

Her breath hitched, an excited sound, and her arms twined around my neck, molding to me beautifully, her curves impatient beneath my hands. We didn’t click together like hard edges of a puzzle but with fingers linking, giving and taking, reforming, accommodating, our bodies moving in perfect unison. As our tongues tangled, I swear, part of my soul left my body, an offering of both gratitude and an appeal that this moment last forever. She tasted of hunger. Heaven. Heat.

Gasping for air, Charlotte lifted her chin and I immediately fastened my mouth to her jaw, then neck, kisses wet and biting as I pulled the side of the shirt—my shirt—to the side. I needed to taste that freckle I’d spotted earlier. Warmth and salt. Perfect.

Charlotte moaned again, then panted, the sounds harsh and uneven and eager. Her palms roamed lower, down my back, then slid around to my front to massage and grab at my chest and abdomen.

“You are so sexy,” she said on a trembling breath. “I need—I need—” she whimpered as my hands pushed up her shirtfront, massaging her generous tits through the flimsy fabric triangles of the too-small bikini.

“Jesus fucking fuck,” I growled, every coherent thought obscured by clouds of disorienting desire. This is new. I’d never been beyond the reach of my reason before. It was like jumping with no parachute and no mind for my own safety, and I didn’t care. I loved it. I wanted it. Needed it.

In my defense, her breasts were the most erotic gratification, made for my hands, the perfect weight. And her responsiveness, how she sucked in a tight breath and pushed her chest forward, the soft keening sound slipping past her lips—also perfect.

How had I survived without touching her before now? And why weren’t her breasts in my mouth? I needed to taste more of her skin. I needed her nipple growing hard under my tongue and fingers. I needed to tease her, I needed—I needed her, more of her filling my hands, more friction, more of her sounds, more of her surrounding me, and less potential for space between us.

Clumsily backing her up, we halted when her thighs met a table. I lifted her in one mindless, fluid motion, unbuttoning the shirt she wore with frantic, shaking hands.

“Ah, God. Hank. Wait, wait, wait.” Her fingers spasmed on my sides, then moved to my shoulders, pushing at me with gentle pressure. “Do you—do you have a condom?”

“I—” I blinked. Condom? No. No, no. I wasn’t fucking her in my bar. This wasn’t—

“I’m not having sex without a condom,” she said hurriedly, her nails already digging back into my skin, indulging in a nipping kiss and catching my bottom lip.

Giving my head a quick shake to form words, I focused on undoing the buttons of the shirt, saying, “I do have a condom, but—”

“I have an implanted IUD since Frankie was born, but I stopped having sex without condoms way before that. I know they’re not infallible—which is why Frankie is here—but through some miracle, the only STD I got from Kevin was chlamydia—all cleared up, by the way—and there’s no way I’ll ever—”

“Charlotte.” Regretfully abandoning the shirt, I pressed my thumb against her lips, loving the softness, knowing they’d feel like heaven wrapped around my cock and grimacing with the effort to shove that addictive image aside. “We’re not having sex.”

“We’re not?” she whispered, flinching a millimeter away, her mouth moving against my finger. “Then what are we doing?”

I couldn’t pull enough air into my lungs; my head was fuzzy. All the blood had rushed south.

What are we doing?

“Hank?”

As I stared into her wide eyes, I wavered. Rational Hank wanted a chance with her, wanted her to be a part of my life in some real way—at least—and far more than this desperate groping. And I wanted to be part of hers.

But irrational Hank wanted to fuck her. Hard and fast. Right now. On this table. With her ankles on my shoulders, and my thumb on her slippery clit, and her breast in my mouth, and her nails scratching up my neck as she screamed my name and came around my cock, over and over.

Decisions, decisions.

We could do both?

While I wavered, Charlotte dropped her hands from my body. I blinked, startled to find the haze in her expression had seemed to clear, leaving her eyes stark and her mouth open. “I’m sorry,” she choked out. “I—I don’t know what I’m—oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

“No, no. Don’t apologize.” I stole a kiss, gathering her hands in both of mine, wanting them back on me. I kissed her again. “You’re so addictive,” I muttered unthinkingly between kisses, still undecided—to fuck or not to fuck, that was the question.